Conor's Way

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  He looked down at the small hand spread across his chest in a gesture of complete trust.

  She trusted him. After she'd seen him in the throes of his nightmares, he could not imagine how.

  She loved him. After what he had told her, he could not imagine why.

  He looked at the face so close to his own. By the moonlight through the window, he could see the dark lashes that swept her cheeks, the creamy skin that was so soft to touch, the silken strands of her hair that spread across the pillow, and felt a kind of peace he'd never known before.

  When he'd said that confession was good for the soul, he had said it with mockery, but perhaps there was truth in it, as well. The shame was still with him, the guilt still haunted him, but they seemed lighter bur­dens now, they seemed easier to bear than they ever had before.

  He touched her face, ran one finger down her cheek to her lips, soft and warm and slightly parted in sleep. My wife, he thought. My wife.

  He wanted it. God, he wanted it all. He wanted tree houses and picnics and butter-pecan cookies; he wanted a home and land to call his own. He wanted to tell bedtime stories to the girls—his girls—and he wanted to watch them grow up. He wanted Olivia; he wanted the warmth and softness of her to soothe away all the cynical hardness within himself. He wanted to wake every morning to that radiant smile, that felt like sunlight when it touched him, and let it banish all his dark dreams. He wanted her by his side all the days and nights of his life.

  For the first time, the future beckoned to him, a future beyond the next town, the next fight, the next bad dream. A future that had what he'd never thought to find again: love. He wanted that future. He didn't give a damn if he deserved it. He wanted it, and he was going to take it, hang on to it, make it his own.

  Conor eased out of the bed, careful not to wake her, and went out onto the veranda. Moonlight sifted between the branches of the oak trees and cast twisted shadows across the gravel of the drive below. He'd prune those trees come spring and those boxwood hedges, too.

  He thrust his hands in the pockets of his trousers and walked down the veranda, making plans. The house would need a coat of paint before next winter. The gar­dens and flower beds needed to be completely redone.

  He turned the corner and walked along the side of the house. The gazebo wasn't worth saving, he decided, staring down at the dilapidated structure. The hopeless tangle of roses that climbed up the sides were the only thing that kept the structure from falling down. He'd tear it down and build Olivia a new gazebo, with the honeysuckle she loved so much planted all around it.

  He came to the end of the veranda and leaned against the rail, looking out over the backyard. If they tore down the deserted cabins, they could plant an orchard of pears in that spot. The old stable and the barn were all right, but—

  A flicker of light caught his attention. Conor frowned, staring at the outline of the barn, and he saw movement in the shadows. He got a brief glimpse of a man running for the woods, then the tiny flicker of light suddenly burst into flame.

  Christ. Conor turned around and raced back the way he'd come. "Olivia!" he shouted, as he entered the bed­room. "Olivia, the barn's on fire!"

  She flung aside the covers and jumped out of bed, fumbling for her clothes in the dark. "What happened?"

  "I don't know," he answered, as he grabbed his boots and yanked them on. "Bring as many buckets as you can. Shovels, too, if you can find any."

  He pulled the sheet off the bed and ran out the door. Within seconds, he had descended the stairs and left the house, his only thought to get the animals out of the barn.

  The barn was filled with smoke when Conor opened the door, and a wall of heat hit him. Coughing, he jumped back, took three deep breaths, and entered the barn.

  He could hear Cally and Princess making the wild neighs of panic and kicking at the sides of their stalls, trying desperately to escape. Orange flames licked the walls at the other end, feeding on the dry wood with crackling intensity.

  Coughing, Conor grabbed the coil of rope that lay in one corner and made for the first stall. He got in with the mule, careful to avoid the animal's kicking hooves, and wrapped the sheet around its head. After looping the rope around its neck, he led the frightened mule out of the barn, as Olivia came running with a bucket of water from the pump, the girls right behind her.

  "Grab the mule!" he told her, as he pulled the sheet and the rope away from Cally's head, and ran back to the barn. He could hear Olivia calling after him, but he did not stop.

  Smoke stung his eyes as Conor made for the second stall and began to guide Princess out of the barn. The heat seared his skin, and the flames were a roar in his ears. He held his breath against the thick smoke. He got Princess out just as the roof fell in.

  Olivia dropped the empty bucket and ran to him with a cry of relief. He let go of the cow and wrapped his arms around her, sucking in great gasps of air. He held her tight against him, thinking he'd never let her go as long as he lived, when suddenly she yanked out of his hold and glared up at him.

  "Going back in there for a cow!" she shouted furi­ously. "Are you out of your mind? You could have been killed. Don't you ever do that to me again—do you hear me, Conor Branigan?"

  She loved him. He grabbed her and kissed her, hard, before she could say another word.

  * * *

  The sun had lifted well above the trees by the time the fire was out. Conor, Olivia, and the girls, along with neighbors and friends who had seen the blaze and come running to assist, continued to throw buckets of water and shovels of dirt over the charred remains, and the flames had finally been extinguished.

  It was Oren who found the can of kerosene. He brought it to Conor and said, "I reckon you all must've turned down their last offer."

  Conor set aside his shovel and took the tin can. He stared down at it for a moment, then he lifted his head and took a long, hard look at the smoldering remains of the barn. He thought about another fire and a cottage in Derry twenty-five years ago. He thought about Hiram Jamison and Vernon Tyler, Lord Eversleigh and Arthur Delemere, and all the other men who thought every­thing in the world was theirs to take, theirs to destroy.

  He looked up and met Oren's somber gaze. "Would you happen to know where Vernon Tyler lives?"

  The other man studied him for a moment, then he said, "About a mile this side of town. Go west on the main road. When you cross the Sugar Creek bridge, it's the first lane to the left."

  Conor nodded. "I'm after borrowing your horse, if you don't mind?"

  "Sure. I can ride home with Kate in the wagon. Unless you want some company?"

  "No. I'd rather do this myself."

  "Sure thing." Oren shoved his hands in his pockets and added, "Be careful."

  Conor walked away without replying. He knew what he had to do, and being careful had nothing to do with it.

  * * *

  When Conor arrived at Vernon Tyler's estate, he didn't bother to give his name. He pushed his way past the black gentleman who had just informed him the family was at breakfast, and entered the house.

  "Suh!" the man cried as he was shoved aside. "You can't come in here. I told you—"

  Conor ignored him. He crossed the foyer, and began searching for the dining room. The butler followed him, protesting loudly.

  When he located the dining room, he found Hiram, Vernon, and a beautiful blond woman who must be Vernon's wife, seated at a table laid with gleaming china, crystal, and covered silver dishes.

  All of them stared at him in astonishment as he entered the room. Conor glanced down at his soot- covered clothes and the stains of charcoal and mud that his boots had made on the plush white rug. "Top of the mornin' to you," he said, and walked to the table.

  He faced Hiram Jamison and slammed the can of kerosene down on the table. "Mr. Jamison, I'll make this quite simple for you. The answer is still no, it will always be no, and there is nothing you can do to change my mind. You can threaten me, you can burn down my barn again and
again and again, but I'm not selling my land to you. Is that clear?"

  "What is he talking about?" The blond woman turned to Hiram with a troubled look on her face. "Papa, you didn't do anything to this man's barn, did you?"

  "Of course not, my dear. He is obviously deranged." He gestured to the doorway. "Abraham, remove this man from my house."

  Conor turned to glare at the butler, who was coming toward him. "Back off, lad," he said quietly.

  The man hesitated, glanced at Hiram, then back at Conor again. Something of his seething rage must have shown in his face, for the man stepped back, shaking his head. Conor returned his attention to the man across the table, hoping to hell he could pull this off.

  He pulled out one of the chairs and sat down with­out waiting for an invitation, unmindful of the black soot on his clothes that stained the ivory velvet uphol­stery. "Mr. Jamison, let's not waste time dancing around the issue. You want to build a railroad, but I can tell you right now, even if you manage to steal my land, you'll not build that railroad of yours on it. I can promise you that."

  Vernon made a sound of contempt and threw down his napkin. "Who the hell do you think you are, boy, coming in here and making threats? You can't stop us."

  "No?" Conor turned to look at Vernon. "Who do you think lays railroad track, boyo?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft. "Every mile of track across this great country has been laid with the blood and sweat of thou­sands of Irishmen. When the Irishmen you hire to lay track find out that you threatened one of their own to get his land, you'll not sink one spike or lay one tie on that land."

  Appearing completely at ease, Conor leaned back in his chair. Returning his attention to Hiram, he said, "Trust me, Mr. Jamison, if you force me off my land, you'll never build a railroad on it."

  "That's nothing to worry about," Vernon said. "We'll just hire workers who aren't Irish."

  Conor smiled. He addressed his reply to Vernon, but his gaze never left the gray-haired man across the table. "Ah, but Mr. Jamison here isn't thinking about this penny-ante little railroad in Louisiana, now. He's think­ing about those steamships of his, and all the Irish long­shoremen who load his cargo, and all the Irish navvies who run the engines. He's thinking what a shame it would be if some dynamite happened to find its way onto some of those ships once they're fully loaded with cargo and ready to move out." Conor tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. "A few accidents like that could ruin a shipping company, wouldn't you say?"

  Conor did not wait for a reply. He shook his head and went on, "No, Vernon, your man here's thinking about those mines of his in Pennsylvania, and all the Irishmen who go down there every day to haul out that coal, and all the accidents and wildcat strikes that might suddenly start happening. He's thinking about the Irish lasses who put together shirts in his linen mills, and the Irishman who drives his carriage. He's thinking about the wee Irish maid who brings his coffee in the mornings, and he's wondering if he'll notice when it starts to have a bitter taste."

  The other man smiled, leaning back in his chair. "You're bluffing. You don't have that kind of influ­ence."

  "Don't I?" Conor countered swiftly. "I suppose that if I were just another Mick off the potato boat—I do believe that was how you put it, wasn't it?—I wouldn't be able to rally my fellow Irishmen around me."

  He paused, then gave the other man an insolent grin. "But, you see, I don't happen to be just any Irishman. Go into any Irish pub along the New York docks, and talk to your longshoremen about Conor Branigan, and listen to what they'll tell you. Or, ask those men who go down into those coal mines of yours. Or, ask the men who lay your railroad track. Or, ask the Irish lasses who make shirts in your factories or bring your coffee."

  Conor straightened in his chair and the grin vanished. "They'll tell you how I spent two years running guns from New York to Belfast, smuggling them in right under the noses of British customs. They'll tell you how I was arrested and tried for treason, how I was subjected to the cruelest tortures imaginable when I served time in a British prison, of how it was the protests and marches of their sisters and brothers back in Ireland that forced Prime Minister Gladstone to free me."

  Conor grabbed the edges of his shirt and tore the linen apart. The woman gave a sharp little gasp. "These are my badges of valor, Mr. Jamison, and with every lash and every burn and every bullet, I earned the respect of another Irish heart. There are men who sit in pubs in New York and lift their glasses in songs about me. There are wee girls skipping rope in Boston and Belfast to songs about me. And there are Irish people who would risk their lives for me if I asked them to. To them, I represent hope and freedom. To them, I'm a hero."

  He waited for his words to sink in, then Conor played his last card. "All I have to do is send one tele­gram to New York, to a gentleman by the name of Hugh O'Donnell. He's the head of Clan na Gael, which is the American counterpart to my own Irish Republican Brotherhood. I smuggled many of Hugh's guns into Belfast, and he owes me more than a few favors. If Hugh puts out the word that you're trying to steal Conor Branigan's land, just the way the British back home have stolen Irish land for the last three hun­dred years, you won't lay one foot of railroad track, here or anywhere else. You'll have so many problems, you won't know which way to turn. I'll cost you so much money, those investors backing this railroad of yours will start asking questions and demanding expla­nations. You'll be looking over your shoulder and jumping out of your skin at every Irish voice you hear. Your life will be hell for as long as it lasts, and it won't last long."

  He stared at the man across the table, and he didn't know if Jamison believed him or not. It was such an outrageous load of shit. He had no idea if Hugh would really do anything to help him, after he'd refused to raise money for the cause when he'd come to America. But bluffing was something Conor knew he did very well, and as long as Jamison believed him, the truth didn't really matter.

  The woman laid a hand on Hiram's arm. "Papa?"

  Vernon shoved back his chair and stood up, ready to throw Conor out himself, but Jamison lifted a hand in warning, and Vernon sank slowly back into his chair. "Hiram, you're not going to let him get away with this, are you?" he demanded incredulously.

  Hiram said nothing. He kept his assessing gaze fixed on Conor, trying to sift through the blarney and find the truth.

  Conor gave it to him. "Bigger bastards than you have tried to break me, Mr. Jamison. They're dead now."

  "Papa," the woman said in a shaking voice, clearly upset by the threats, "it's not worth it. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you. Please, abandon this before—"

  "Alicia, shut up!" Vernon snapped. He turned to his father-in-law. "We can't let him destroy everything we've worked for down here, everything we've built. We can handle any of his friends who might cause trouble."

  "Papa, give this up," Alicia implored, ignoring her husband. "It's not worth it. These people could kill you."

  Conor heard the tearful, frightened note in her voice, and he took full advantage of it. "Your daughter is lovely, Mr. Jamison, but no woman looks beautiful in mourning cloth."

  "Papa!" Alicia cried fearfully and grabbed his sleeve. "Please, give this up. Do it for me."

  Conor saw a glimmer of fear in the other man's face, and he began to think this was actually going to work. He waited, his face impassive, his gaze locked with that of the man across the table.

  Hiram was the one who looked away; he took his daughter's hand. "What do you want, Branigan?"

  "Give up this idea of putting a railroad across my land. Stop threatening my family. Take your daughter and your son-in-law, and go back to New York."

  "No!" Vernon shouted, slamming his fist on the table and rattling the breakfast dishes. "We can't stop now!"

  "Be quiet, Vernon." Hiram considered the situation for a moment, then rose to his feet. "Very well," he said, and his daughter gave a sob of relief. "For my daughter's sake, I agree to your terms. You have my word."

  "I'm glad we could come to
an understanding." Conor stood up and turned to leave, but in the door­way, he paused.

  "By the way," he added, "I've already sent a telegram to Hugh O'Donnell. It's not that I don't trust your word, Mr. Jamison, but I've learned the hard way that it's always best to take precautions. If anything happens to me or my wife or my daughters, Hugh knows what to do." He nodded to the woman. "Mrs. Tyler."

  He didn't bother to acknowledge Vernon. He walked out without another word, mounted his borrowed horse, and rode away. At the main road, he didn't turn the horse toward Peachtree, but set off in the opposite direction, figuring he'd better go into town and send that telegram to Hugh, just in case Jamison decided to verify that part of his claim. Hell, if nothing else, Hugh would enjoy the story.

  Conor rather enjoyed it, too, but for a different rea­son. He'd always appreciated irony. He'd spent the past three years avoiding the heroic reputation that was such a sham, and now he was using it to gain the love he'd never wanted and become the hero he'd never been in the first place. He might even succeed. Conor threw back his head and laughed in utter disbelief.

  Silence fell in the dining room after Conor Branigan's departure, and both men turned to Alicia. She took the hint and rose to her feet. "I'm sure you two will want to discuss business," she murmured, and left the room.

  Vernon spoke the moment Alicia was gone. "I'll go see Olivia. After this business with the barn, I'm sure she'll be much more willing to talk about selling. If I can get her to agree, Branigan will go along with her."

  "No."

  "What?" Vernon stared at the other man in astonish­ment. "You're not really going to agree to his demands?"

  Hiram did not answer that question. Instead, he leaned forward in his chair and gave Vernon a hard stare across the table. "You had Joshua set fire to their barn, didn't you?"